BDSM Erotica
"Visiting Valerie," a sex story by Griswold Frye
Visiting Valerie is an excerpt from a forthcoming novel, “Philadelphia Personal”.
I rang your doorbell. It was 9am in the morning, and well before the dancers' waking hour. You opened the door, hiding behind it as it swung. I could only tell you were there at all by the logfire smell of coffee that escaped into the cold morning air. But I exaggerate. I could also tell you were there by the thin line of naked shoulder, leg and silver shoe that didn't quite make it behind the door as you opened it. I stepped quickly inside, awkwardly almost, as if it were the first time I ever saw your flesh. It's always like that with you, you know, like a first time somehow.
You were holding a coffee cup, one of those monster mug things that I like: gallonage, you call it. And you were naked, except for the shoes and the smile. Always that smile, opium-smooth cocaine-bright smile. Damn.
I dropped my little package, and shrugged my way out of my bulky coat, my arms loosely around your waist before it hit the floor.
“Want some coffee?” you say. Seeing that I can barely speak, much less sip, you set the cup down and put your hands to my face. Your eyes, a mix of grey, green, and gold are wide open, pupils big in the dim light of the apartment. I pull you to me, grateful again that those huge shoes bring your cheek level with mine and your ass within an easy hand reach. I hear the scrunch of your tiny pubic bush against my pants and feel myself harden to you. My cock warms gratefully to you as I kick my shoes off and pull you closer into me.
I trace the muscles on your back and arms and shoulders with my fingers, drawing the crevices between them, shading in their roundness and strength.(I haven't told you that since you first decided to give yourself to me, I have become a devotee of backs and arms and shoulders—a fetishist, almost. I'll have to tell you about that sometime. Maybe sometime when I tie your face to the wall and probe those muscles hard with my hands while my cock bounces along your ass. But I digress).
"Come here" you say, as if I weren't already as here as a man could be. You lead me to a mirror. "Just stand there. Don't move." You grab my thin cotton shirt right above the love handles and pull it up. I think about toying with you, but instead I raise my arms and the shirt is off. Your hands are at my belt and seconds later, pants and socks and all are in a pile beside me. You jump back up, press yourself against me and give me a huge, wet, prom-night kiss.
"Don't move, just look in the mirror," you say, pulling away and dropping to one knee, then two. You lower yourself with dancer slowness, showing off your power. My cock is crazy wild, swollen, burning. I can almost see the steam coming out of the end like one of those Icelandic geyser trails. I think of the word, 'eruption'.
You curl your tongue up in an impossible arc. It reminds me of one of those Balinese god-dancers and of the first time you danced for me and teased my mouth with that tongue. It's a promise, that tongue, but I didn't know then whether it was one you'd keep or not.
The tip of your tongue goes under my cock, to the little flap of skin that's called the frenulum. Friendly to that frenlum you are, balancing the weight of my cock—which seems to me to be increasing by the second—on it as a pivot point. Like a seal with a ball, you could toss it in the air, spin it, spin me into orbit. Instead, like a seal with a fish, you flip it and swallow it, the entire thing disappearing in your mouth in a rush of comfort and heat.
I barely know this feeling: it's ecstasy, of course, ex-out of, stasis-place. Blown out of my place to somewhere else. But I don't know where I am, spinning over backward while my feet are stuck to the carpet and your hands anchor my legs against your chest.
Just as I'm about to disappear into the feeling, I push your head back, My hands are on your face, my thumbs in your mouth. I pick you up by your jaw, then I grab your hands. "Now you, come here." It's a command that you let me make and you become a kitten as you rise up. I pick up the gift-wrapped package in one hand and lead you down the narrow hall to the bedroom. I wonder for a second if you are walking in that professionally provocative way, that one that makes my heart ache, but there is at this moment, no looking back.
It's your turn now and I spin you to your the edge of your bed. "Here, I brought you a little something." I keep my tone comic-casual. You tear the paper hesitantly, looking up at me with a tender little mock-timid look that moves me tremendously. When the paper is finally, reluctantly torn, you look down. "Ohmigod.”
To an untrained eye, the contents of the package look like a purple girly version of the weights you strap to your ankles to enhance various video-based exercises. Your eyes are anything but untrained. You recognize the padded cuffs as restraints. You see that the heavy D-ring is designed for attachment to a rope, you recognize the soft leather and the padded filling as intended to cushion the skin of the ankle or wrist. Most importantly, you know that strapping these on is the first step in an agreement.
Putting these on is a promise that you will give yourself up to the will of someone else. You will, once the straps are tightened and the ropes attached, be a feather in the wind of someone's sexual imagination. Your intentions will disappear and you will become whatever I want you to be. Everything outside your bedroom will disappear too and your world will be no bigger than your skin and my heart. It may be thrilling; it will certainly hurt. Close the buckles, and surrender your choice about your fate.
You look at me softly and lick your lips. You smile that crazed happy smile of yours. I'm offering you an interval that could be described as torture, you would be within your rights to throw me out, to call the cops, to hit me with your night stand. Instead, you smile, pull your right foot up to the edge of the bed and slowly, and with muscular intensity, tighten the straps around your ankle. You test the fit, find it satisfactory and then attach the left. Your eyes never leave my face, not even when you put your wrists together and offer them to be bound. I pick one of the lengths of drapery cord from under the bed and I wonder if you can hear my heartbeats.
It's not long after that your hands are tied to each other and then to the iron headboard of your bed. I marvel that you bought that bed, its head and foot a skeleton of iron made for attaching ropes and securing you in place. Your ankle straps are tied to nylon rope that is in turn tied to the outer edges of the headboard leaving your legs spread wide and folded back at a deliciously acute angle to the horizontal. You are about as exposed as it is possible for a woman to be, your legs forming a deep 'V' whose bottom is your pussy. It's the position I promised you when I first answered your personal ad, and I'm especially fond of it because it won you.
Examination in Shadows by China Hamilton, available at Obsession Art
I see an unimaginable buffet, an excess of delicacies that I am almost more transfixed by the richness of what I see than I am impelled to enjoy it. I let the fingers of my right hand run down from your upraised left foot with its silly silver shoe to the back of your calf and then the inside of your thigh. I look like I am playing with you, but I'm really just looking, just letting the sunshine of this perfect view burn itself into my brain.
Your ass! Your ass is plainly impossible. It has a glorious roundness built on an elegant slimness. It's a fine Burgundy of a butt, made for savoring and evoking a bit of awe. I pinch it lightly to test its reality and to test my own. Yup, we're both here. You flinch at the pinch, pressing yourself with the little bit of movement that's available to you, into my hand. It's a gesture that asks for more, not less, but you will have to wait.
Your pubic hair is trimmed in an oval for football season perhaps and there is a tiny stubble visible where you have shaved. I cup your lips in my hand and press them gently together while I draw small circles with them. I could be distracted now. I could end up stroking and kissing and licking you, sucking and nibbling on your clitoris and working first a finger, then two, then my hand up inside you. I could lose myself in the trance of playing with you. Yes.
But I have promises to keep. Before I can indulge you with your whipping, I have to punish you. There are ways in which you speak sometimes that insult our reality and I have promised you a careful punishment. When I first announced my intention, I told you a number. Eleven. You are going to receive eleven. "Eleven what?”
The tweezers have been in your bedroom for over a week now. You have had a chance to think about them. Like a bouncer in a strip club, I drag my overenthusiastic self back from the stage of your sweet pussy. For the sake of distraction, I lift you slightly and quickly by your right ankle and smack your ass hard with my hand. You breathe in sharply and I immediately turn the other cheek, slapping you again.
As I turn to rummage in your tool kit, the red mark-hand prints are beginning to form. There are a dozen delightful little devices in the wicker basket beside your bed. When we were first flirting, you made reference to them once and set me burning. In order to return the favor now, I pick out a few of your favorites and toss them on the bed beside you.
There is a tiny vibrator, run by watch batteries. It could pass for a lipstick, and it looks quite ineffective. There are two clamps, powered by springs and intended for gluing pieces of wood. They look perhaps too effective. There is an odd little wooden slapstick, crudely cut in curves with holes down its length. And of course there are the tweezers.
I don't know if you've thought about the tweezers since I added them to your basket. If you have, you must have known that I didn't intend them for mere plucking around. Perhaps you've had a fantasy, perhaps your fantasy scared you a little and you decided not to think about it anymore.
There are two perfectly red tracings of my hand on your ass now, one on each cheek. I stroke the outline of the fingers with the lightest possible pressure. I imagine that it tickles and you purse your lips.
The tweezers are long-armed and springy, designed for splinters and maybe eyebrow sculpting. I look at them skeptically now, wondering if they are sturdy enough for the work ahead. I would like to slap that ass some more just to feel it and to feel it get hot. Instead, I slap the inside of your thigh and leave my hand there for a minute feeling the heat. I pinch the taut skin an inch from your crotch, then I pinch a bit harder.
It's at moments like this that the shifty stew of eroticism and pain sometimes makes me dizzy. I want to hurt you, and I want you to enjoy it. But if you only enjoy it, then it hasn't hurt. On the other hand, if it hurts too much, you won't be thrilled, won't know you're loved and I have to spank and kiss you because the pain and the love are somehow the same thing. I never talk to you about this because ‘love’ is a word that scares you, makes you hide from me. So in my confusion, and in lieu of speech, I press your thighs down at an even more alarming angle and slap them hard, two athletic swinging blows that come from the center of my body down to my arm and hand. My hand is throbbing and that seems to clear something up.
I lie across the bed, my face a few inches from the oval of your hair. I pick out a tiny stub of hair—one that looks like it was shaved two or three days ago—and grab it firmly with the tweezers, being careful not to pinch your skin. I pull hard and the hair comes up, pulling your skin up in a cone. The tweezers slip and you make a tiny, mouse-like sound. I choke up on them and this time the hair comes out. “One.”
I find another stub near the first in the top center of the triangle of your shaved and unshaved pubis. I tighten my grip and pull again. Your squeal this time is higher, more nasal. “Two.” The next three come from the same neighborhood and I see with some surprise that I'm shaping a"V'-for Valerie, no doubt. You seem to have settled in to the sting of depilation, not bored exactly, but accustomed. So I move my attention to the longer hairs on your lips. They are easier to grip and they almost invite me to tease them out with little tugs. I fancy, without really knowing, that the skin would be more sensitive there, that the softness of the flesh would prolong the pinch as the hair gives itself up by the roots. I imagine a long, slow tug. But that would be sadistic, cruel even. So I grab one and pull sharply. This time your cry isn’t compressed and tiny. There is another candidate hair at the very edge, next to where the sweet wet flesh begins. “Seven"
You are twisting your hips now, trying to spin out of the way of this vicious bird that’s pecking at you. Your back is arched and your breath is coming in small gasps and I sense that we may be at a border here. On the other side of the fence, there may be a place where the pain isn’t our friend. I carefully isolate another hair with my fingers, taking time to stroke your lips as I do. You relax just a little and then I seize the hair in the tweezers and gently pull: three times, “Eight. Nine. Ten.” Your belly goes slack and you let out a sound that’s almost like a laugh. You are relieved even though the tweezers are still attached to your tender follice by the thread of the hair. I can almost hear your fear leaving your body and I tickle your clitoris with a finger and blow a stream of breath on to it.
In a few seconds, you are making little humming noises. I squeeze the tweezers tight now and begin a slow, strong, steady pull. As your skin stretches out with the hair, your hum becomes a thin ‘eeee’ and you try to follow my pull with your hips to ease the pain. I hold the pressure for a count of five, then pull. The hair comes out and your body shakes, a fine quick tremor and then you lie still. “Eleven.”
A minute later, I’m lying between your legs, my mouth on yours and your face in my hands. I try to keep most of my weight on my elbows and knees and I try to have as much of the skin of my belly and chest in contact with you as I can. I dance slowly from side to side as I kiss you, rubbing you, brushing you, polishing you. Your lips are slack, almost sleepy, taking little kitten nips of me. Yes, I think, yes. We scampered along the ridge just right, walked the line, balanced on the fence. Yes, I hurt you and made you mine. It will be hours before I begin to think about how much you just made me yours and a much longer time before I begin to understand it. But right now, there are your lips and your torso up against me and your legs in the air. You are moaning a little, and I think about the world of possibilities tied to the bed frame in front of me.
Originally published May 2010